


with the tide

by shortcircuitify



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: “This is not how I wanted – I shouldn’t have –” he starts, guilty, but she shushes him, runs her fingers through his peppered hair, and he cries and cries and cries.“Stay,” she says, pleads, and he pulls her close, until his tears dry, and she can feel his steady breathing against her ear.Some in-between moments of the false grey warden and the court diplomat.
Relationships: Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	1. inquisition

The first time Blackwall meets Josephine, it is on order from the Herald of Andraste, who eloquently tells him to ‘stop being a bugger and get your shite together with Scribbles’. It takes questioning both Cullen and Cassandra to understand what the _hell_ the man means, and Blackwall is finally directed to one Miss Josephine Montilyet.

Finding her is simple. Haven’s Chantry is quite tiny and he is certain he can hear her voice reverberating off the walls the moment he enters. He follows the voice to a small office, peering inside to see what the ruckus is about.

If this group is going to save the world, he doesn’t mind helping the cause, and if he is killed in battle, all the better. But he can’t help but think that they are all a little too loud if they plan to solve the world’s problems with diplomacy. A sword is quieter and more efficient.

She is in the middle of a discussion with an Orlesian, cheeks flush and eyes sharp. Despite her clear agitation, he can see she is bored to death, her eyes dull as she barters. She is regal and stoic, and a little bit haughty.

He hangs back, more out of fear than manners.

She nods her head in feigned politeness, and once the noble finishes his rambling, she tells him, polite and diplomatic smile on her face, to “Fuck off.” In more words than that, but the message is clear.

Blackwall tries to hold back his chuckles at the offended sputtering to follow, but a small smirk escapes and graces his lips nonetheless.

The man storms off in a huff, brushing past Blackwall not so kindly as the mercenary enters the lion’s den. She holds the same smile as before, and his stomach flutters. But, the hard glint in her eyes is gone, and they do not leave his for a second.

“You must be Ser Blackwall?” He nods numbly, for he seems to have lost his tongue.

**…**

She is very intrigued by the Grey Warden. A Grey Warden – how romantic! How tough and brutal and un-gratifying, his hands rough and calloused from the work, his jaw chiseled and hard.

It is with great surprise, then, to see his ticks of nervousness when they speak, when she holds his gaze, watches his throat bob from the corner of her eye. He comes to her often, to discuss the Grey Warden treaties, to work on diplomatic solutions, and yet the nerves do not seem to leave.

Perhaps he is not so used to company, on the Road by himself for years on end. Dark nights replaced with candlelight and monotonous paperwork making him agitated.

But, nevertheless, it is frustrating how he avoids her eyes, and prefers speaking to the floor. She huffs in frustration, turns to the papers crowding her desk, is suspicious of the pink dusting his cheeks, and chalks it up to the cold night and the damp walls.

She forces herself to re-read the same declaration, for the third time, banishing wandering thoughts.

They meet every night for several nights, the Grey Wardens repetitive and superfluous in their writing, and it takes the two of them to decipher the half of what is being said. She writes the whole of the responses to the various groups the Warden’s allied with.

They do not waste words between them, and she is somewhat disappointed in the fact. Her throat burns with questions about the mysterious Wardens and their ways, but holds fast at the idea. No doubt secrecy is a sacred order, and Blackwall through his travels must have heard enough questions as it is.

A fortnight later they are finished their work, and her hand and back are cramped, her head aching. Blackwall hunches over her desk, eyes closed as she finishes signing the last call to action. His beard and tunic are rumpled, and his eyes flicker open, fighting off impending sleep.

She stands, stretches her back, moves towards the small liquor bar in the corner of her office, pouring herself a much-needed drink.

“Long night?” He asks, voice deep with exhaustion. A shiver goes down her spine.

“Just like every other night,” she breathes out in response, “I would ask you if you want a drink, but I can imagine your answer,” she pours two glasses.

“You’re a diplomat for a reason, I see.”

“I believe we both deserve a break,” she assumes he will down his drink, return to the stables to sleep for the night, and watches him carefully as he nurses the drink instead, leaning back in his seat.

He watches her, carefully, before turning back to the warm honey in his glass.

“We’ve been cooped up here all day,” she nods her response, takes a sip of her drink, lets the warmth soothe her, dissolve the thoughts flitting around her head, “I’m sure the night is a nice change of scenery,” he gets up from his seat, hands on his hips, “Walk with me?”

She does not know if it is the exhaustion, or the drink, or spending countless hours over treaties, but he does not hesitate, holds her gaze steady, even though she sees his throat bob in a way that has become familiar to her.

She smiles, stands up.

**…**

She rushes to finish her paperwork; at least, rushes more than usual. The night is warm, and the tavern is loud – soldiers drink, enjoy the night, light the braziers as all of Haven finds a little solace from the upcoming battles.

She tries to avoid Leliana’s gaze as she walks past the Spymaster’s outpost. The spy watches her closely, but does not say anything, and turns back to her ravens.

Josephine continues her stroll, breaths in the evening air as she walks past the tavern where Sera and the Herald are in a pissing contest, the Iron Bull watching on amused.

She continues on, outside of the walls of Haven and to the front of the stables. The night is cold and bites into her skin, and she pulls her coat closer to herself. He is there, as expected, solemn face hidden by shadows. Always hidden. 

She stands beside him, burrowing into her coat further while he throws an extra blanket over her shoulders. She burrows into that as well.

They continue up the path from the stable, until they are at the highest hill surrounding Haven, hunker down onto a log cleared of snow thanks to Blackwall. Their thighs brush, but they do not pull away, and sit in silence for a time.

As the night gets darker, and the merriment gets quieter, he starts quietly, tells her about the stars, spins yarns about life on the road, the life of a Warden. They are dark, grim tales, but they fill her heart with some hope, some semblance of the grand tales of the courts in Orlais.

She will add in an _ooh_ or an _aaah_ every so often, but she is content to listen, absorb his words, listen to the subtle changes in his voice.

He tells her stories until she falls asleep, and he carries her to her rooms, and waits until they will meet again, a break from the rest of their lives.

**…**

The nightmares are worse after dealing with the mages in Redcliffe. Dead families, Darkspawn eating the real Blackwall until he is just a skull and bones. But for some reason he can… _remember,_ so clearly, the fate Thedas faces if the Herald does not survive – is just… _gone_ from the face of the world. The red lyrium eating away at him, the stinging and fire that burns wherever it touches, the screams of Iron Bull and Sera and even Cullen.

But worst of all was _her._ The lyrium burning her skin, melting away until she is one with the crystal, screams agonizingly loud until her mouth is frozen in a silent cry.

And he sees it every night in his dreams, every night her eyes glowing sickly red – _why can’t you save me, Blackwall? Why did you let me die?_

He screams in his sleep, hoping for salvation, wishing to return to the nightmares of old, of death and betrayal and blood, all the better than this.

Her hand touches his forehead, soothes the tightness between his brows. He does not wake, but she can see him relax. She is wide awake, her own thoughts plaguing the back of her mind, but she relaxes once Blackwall returns to his own restless slumber, the screaming gone, his breathing calmer.

Quietly she whispers to him, that everything will be alright, that the visions will dissipate come the morn. He does not tell her what his mind conjures, and she does not ask.

_How will you protect her from the monster lurking in your bones?_ The thoughts whisper in his head, and he mumbles in his sleep, unintelligible, but she runs her thumb over his mouth, and they stop.

When she is certain that Blackwall is asleep again, his breathing even and visible in the cool night air, she returns to gazing at the stars, pulling her blanket closer around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the night.

It is the least she can do, she thinks, in return for his companionship, his steady presence as the world crumples around them. Perhaps, in this way, they can protect each other.

**…**

His name rings out and he hears it clearly, even with the chaos surrounding him, civilians and soldiers alike scrambling around as fire reigns down upon them. The refugees are evacuating, and he is to join the Herald and deal with the bloody dragon.

Her footsteps come fast, cheeks flushed, and he smiles, a melancholy thing. There were many, many chances for him to die, but with an arch-demon, those chances are slimmer still. He swallows down the sudden fear in his gut.

Her eyes are rimmed red, but they are sharp. She is close enough to touch, and reaches for his hand, placing a cool, engraved coin into it and wrapping his fingers around it. Her fingers linger over his, memorizing the callouses there.

“A family good luck charm.”

He rubs his thumb against the surface of the coin, catching in the ridges and dips long-ago pressed and stamped. It is soothing.

He looks at her, her eyes serious and deep, and he stutters out, “I’ll keep it safe.”

She breaths, dares to touch his cheek, “I know.”

“Josephine! The Herald requests your assistance immediately!” It is Scout Harding, yelling over the din of the Chantry, looking every bit as ragged as Blackwall is feeling.

As she turns, he catches her by the shoulder, pulls her closer to kiss her on the cheek, nips her chin from the impact. Fast and harsh and not gentle.

They pause, but they do not look at each other, and turn, marching to their deaths.

**…**

He trudges through snow. All he can see is snow. White and whipping across his face. He is thankful for his beard. He is frozen, cold, and starving, but he is alive. The pendant around his neck is warm, he thinks. The rest of the Herald’s companions rub at their own frostbitten limbs, all of them huddling together to stave off the chilling winds.

He thinks about the Herald falling to his death. Quickly shakes those thoughts from his mind, allowing the numbness to seep in. Stays focused on getting one leg through the snow, then the next.

“Fuck!” Sera yells.

“ _Fuck!”_ The Iron Bull replies, much louder, much deeper.

Blackwall can barely make them out in the blizzard, their forms hazy. From the abyss one of the outlines approaches him, the strange boy – demon.

“She wishes – waits – but cannot. Her heart aches, duty flows into it, but not filling the cracks. Masks, masks, masks.”

Blackwall ignores his words. 

“Ha! We made it! And you thought we’d all freeze,” The Iron Bull calls out to Dorian, huddled between the Qunari and the court mage.

The glowing flicker of fire in the distance reminds Blackwall of how cold he feels. There is camp across the mountain, down the slope, and he hears sighs of relief and cries of joy around him. The demon strolls silently beside him, unaffected by the snow.

There is Cullen, face sunken and worn. Cassandra is there as well, her eyes solemn and searching. And Josephine. Her face is cold, thoughts somewhere far. A deep tension in his gut relaxes.

Cullen immediately hands out blankets, warmed previously by coals from the fires, to the various companions trudging their way into camp, telling them where their tents are set up and what is for dinner. Blackwall lingers behind, Josephine eyeing him.

She fidgets, looking between him and Cassandra and the frozen wastelands form where he emerged. There is a hollowness there, hidden in her features that was not there before. She is dead on her feet, horrid and brutal. The cold and the dragon and the dead refugees gazing at him through her eyes.

His heart aches.

“Is the Herald close behind? He cannot be far, right?” She asks numbly, the weight of the world resting on his answer.

“I don’t know,” his teeth chatter, and continues on his way into camp.

She does not stop him.

**…**

“What is your biggest fear?” She asks him one day. The sun is hot and they are both sweating slightly under the barn roof, a miracle at Skyhold. They both soak in the heat.

Blackwall snuffs out the fire, Josephine laying on a pile of hale near his bench. He holds in his hands a box he has been meticulously working on since his arrival, but she dares not ask about it, a secret.

He thinks about her question a moment, feels the fine wood under his thumb. Lies spring to his tongue, second nature now - when he is called, he answers to Blackwall, naturally. He flicks his eyes to the side, contemplates her a moment as she stares up to the ceiling, her face still hollow. But her eyes are sharp.

He hesitates. She turns to him, her face questioning.

_Thom Rainier,_ it almost spills out of him, but he swallows heavily, looks away.

“I’m scared of my past. I’m scared of what others will find, and that they won’t like it,” he whispers, “I’m scared of myself.”

He does not turn to her. Hears her get up, dares to watch as she saunters over to him, sweat beading across her neck and chest, fabric clinging as she moves.

She places a hand on his shoulder, leans towards him to look more closely at the box in his hand. He smells her, and her eyes are close to his now, searching. There are freckles on her cheeks.

“You are full of mysteries, Ser Blackwall,” she tells him, bold, serious.

He replies, “And what of you, Miss Montilyet?”

She looks away, pulls back, her hand sliding away. She smiles, politely, and Blackwall thinks it looks strange.

“I do believe spiders are my greatest fear. Perhaps that is why I refuse to ever, _ever_ go near the Storm Coast, hm?”

He snorts, and she laughs, but he knows it is forced. Looks at the box in his hands, the flower etched into the top, its smooth lines, and takes her hand. Places it into her palm, closes her fingers around it. A familiar gesture.

“For you,” he says, simply.

She clutches it tightly to herself, lost in her thoughts for a moment.

**…**

“Blackwall!” her voice is sharp, her fists clenched as she approaches him from across Skyhold’s vast courtyard. It is filled with young men and women, their hands shaking around dull spears and cracked shields. This feels familiar, to him, but more frantic. The hairs on the back of his neck raise high.

_Send reinforcements,_ is all Cullen’s letter said. Blackwall is to lead the rest of the troops into battle - troops tasked to die to battle mages and demons and whatever the fuck else was being summoned from Adamant’s depths.

His armor creaks as she embraces him. He feels her warmth, even through the thick layers of steel and leather. His heart thumps, uncertainly. Feels the coin lying against his chest, cool.

A year of battles and death and loss and harsh, cool eyes.

She pulls away and stares at him. He has braved battles unending, died before and died again in a terrible future, but against her he softens. A tear wells in the corner of his eye, but she quickly wipes it away. 

“Don’t die,” she says, and he feels death approaching his doorstep.

She kisses him. It is fast and soft, and he is left wanting.

“Please,” she tells him quietly. 

He does not nod, and leaves for Adamant.

**…**

His armor – still covered in blood and grim and death – lies at the entrance of her rooms.

He bites the juncture between her neck and shoulder, and thinks he can taste blood. She feels the cool, stone wall against her naked back, and she is wet and ready for him. He ruts against her warm core – it has been so long, and she is so tight, feels herself stretch around his cock.

His pace is hard and fast, his breath hot against her neck, hand grabbing roughly for her breast. She moans, and he is already coming, deep in her core. She feels _full_.

He takes a moment, and she can see his cheeks flush, probably in embarrassment, before he kneels before her, licking and nipping her core until she is keening against his mouth.

He came back. Always comes back. She slumps against the wall, breath ragged, and he leaves open mouthed kisses on her neck, whispering meaningless words in her ear. She does not pay mind to what he says, cares more about his solid chest against her hands, his rough hair in her palms.

She kisses his temple, and he scoops her into his arms, moving towards her bed, the heady smell of incense filling the air. She curls into his chest, feels for a moment small and safe and secure.

As they lie down he covers her with his body, and he hides his face from her, and he cries. It is silent, and she feels the hot tears against her chest, his head against her breast.

“This is not how I wanted – I shouldn’t have –” he starts, guilty, but she shushes him, runs her fingers through his peppered hair, and he cries and cries and cries.

“Stay,” she says, pleads, and he pulls her close, until his tears dry, and she can feel his steady breathing against her ear.

**…**

Emprise Du Lion is frozen over but Blackwall has learned to block out the pain of numb limbs and burning lips. A dragon roars somewhere in the distance and Iron Bull joins its call, ecstatic. Trevelyan laughs heartily.

Once the roaring has died down and Bull’s adrenaline dries with it, he turns to Blackwall. Camp is boring with nothing left to do for the night, and Bull has already exhausted Solas. He turns to the scowling soldier instead.

“So, how’s Josephine in the sack?” Bull asks, amusement clear through his shite-eating smile.

“How is it fucking the Tevinter mage?” Blackwall replies smugly. Bull whistles, his good eye steadily watching him.

“Pretty fucking good,” the Qunari replies.

“Glad to hear it,” and Blackwall turns from him, the sky becoming golden and red and blue, and he thinks of turning in early.

When he turns back to Bull, he is still staring, his eye dark and knowing.

“You’re going to have to tell her,” he says, serious, “I don’t think she takes kindly to those wearing masks lying in her bed.”

“What the fuck are you –“

“Don’t play the fucking idiot,” Bull stands, and Blackwall keenly remembers how large the Qunari is, “It’s not my place to speak. But don’t play the fucking fool.”

He walks off, into the night, and Blackwall isn’t sure if he hears a dragon or the Iron Bull calling into the darkness.

**…**

The thorns of the rose prick her hand as she holds it, holds it close to her chest. The stars at Skyhold are different - closer and brighter and more sinister for it.

Blackwall loops his arm around her, and she lies her head on his shoulder, his eyes intently on her.

“Alright?” he asks, gruffly.

She feels bile rising in her throat, and looks down at Skyhold. She feels death and fear and horror deep in her chest, has felt it ever since Haven burned to the ground.

“Blackwall,” he does not respond at first, his cheeks and mouth hollow in the moonlight, before turning to her.

“I am,” she feels she is breaking a long-kept secret, feels the words spilling from her mouth in a whisper, “I am scared to die alone.”

He holds her closer, kisses her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, her closed eyes, and she feels that tight ball inside of her loosen, just a bit.

**…**

_Hey Blackwall,_

_Val Royeaux is still horrible._

_Turns out that now that Josephine’s family is allowed back into Val Royeaux, her family has promised her hand in marriage to some douche._

_If you can be here within the fortnight, I’ll set up a duel for you to win her hand back._

_Unless you’re a coward. Up to you._

_Trevelyan_

“ _Fuck_ ,” Blackwall whispers, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The stables are dark, Skyhold asleep, and his sword is dull, but he packs quickly and lightly, prepares a horse to ride to Val Royeaux. Trevelyan, for his incompetence, sent with his letter Josephine’s family’s crest, a golden circle with two crows entwined in the center. A favor given to duel an Orlesian nobleman. He packs the crest, the coin, and his most formal tunic.

“Fuck Orlais,” Blackwall says to his horse, mounts for the capital. _Coward_ rings through his head into the night.

**…**

“I want you to know,” he swallows heavily, sweat still beading against his brow, “You do not owe me anything. Not your hand. Not anything.”

She holds his calloused hand in hers, “I know,” her eyes soften.

He dares kiss her, and melts into her when she returns it, feels the Orlesian sun caress his skin, and for once, enjoys it.

**…**

Blackwall hates balls. He hates nobles and he hates Orlais and he hates all of these things combined most of all. He pulls at the stiff collar of his tunic, curses Leliana under his breath in case she can hear him.

The name _Thom Rainier_ thumps against his skull in these vast halls, feels death crawling through his bones.

Josephine is standing across the room, her mask a bright smile. She is speaking with Mini-Josephine, her mouth moving in a never-ending sea of words, Josephine grabbing her arm to keep her in place.

He slips closer to them, clears his throat, and chuckles at Josephine’s relief that he is there, his presence making her sister shut up for a moment.

“Miss Josephine, would you share this next dance with me?” he hates dancing, but her eyes light up at his suggestion.

Her hand is in his, leading him to the dancefloor, away from the prying questions of her sister. He stumbles, at first, but the old court steps come back to him after a time, and Josephine flushes as he dips her low.

He hears Trevelyan making a toast, in the distance.

Josephine leans in closer to him, humming to the music and laying her head on his chest. He feels oddly content in this moment – like this is how his life should be, should have ended up, and yet it feels strange and foreign. Like he is looking into a moment that does not belong to him.

“Blackwall,” her lips brush against his ear, and he tightens his grip on her waist, “I think I am falling in love with you.”

A hunk of cold stone sinks deep into his chest, he shudders. Pulls her close, throat tight. She smells like lavender and vanilla, soft and warm.

_Don’t play the fucking fool._

**…**

_Josephine,_

_There is little I can say that will ease this pain. Just know that while it hurt to leave, it would’ve hurt more if I stayed._

_I am deeply sorry._

**…**

This is a first - feeling light and free as he enters Val Royeaux, face clean shaven and hair trimmed. The Thom Rainier of years gone past ghosting through his old streets.

It is easy, now, with his broken heart and old bones, to atone for his sins. Stop the murder of the man that used to work for him, trust him, long ago. Val Royeaux loves the drama, the show, and now it is his time. Gentleman of the executioner’s block. He feels the noose around his neck, welcomes it.

He looks out at the crowd, once last time, and there she is. Her eyes are cold, dead, and his heart aches. The noose around his neck loosens, Trevelyan shouting, the crowd in a sudden uproar. Cold shackles tight around his wrists leading him away.

He cannot even die in peace.

The dungeon is cold and dank, and her eyes haunt him as he sits there, awaiting his final trial, Trevelyan as his executioner. Cold and dead and betrayed.

He cries, against the cold stone of the White Tower, weeping into the dirt.

She does not visit him in his cell while he waits. The nightmares return – of Redcliffe and death and betrayal – and so he does not sleep.

He feels filthy.

There is a tapping of metal on metal, and he looks up to see Trevelyan’s pouting face, “You really fucked this up, didn’t you?”

He does not reply, crouches in on himself.

“Hm. Well, we’ll be doing the trial at Skyhold. The guards will take you there now.”

Blackwall growls, “ _Please_ , leave me to die. I beg you.”

The guard opens his cell, pulls him against the cuffs that have rubbed his wrists raw. He almost whines, frustrated and angry and empty. Trevelyan simply stares at him and smiles.

“I do not wish to face her again,” Blackwall hisses as he passes the Inquisitor.

Trevelyan’s face hardens, an unfamiliar mask, and he whispers “ _Coward_ ,” before leaving Blackwall to himself again.

**…**

Thom Rainier is set free, in body if not in guilt. Allowed to live free of the Grey Wardens and his previous life.

He still wishes for death, but the Inquisitor is a cruel master.

Another part of him relishes the thought of a second chance, a new beginning. But as his shackles loosen, the hands of a free man, he sees Josephine – back tall and face cold – writing down his judgement, Leliana’s lips pursed together as she stands on Trevelyan’s other side.

Bile rises in his throat as he kneels before the Inquisition, pledging himself to help with their cause until the end. The very end. Perhaps, his end.

He returns to the stables, and as night falls, he resigns himself to the truth that she will not visit him. _Coward_ rings through his head, but he does not bring himself to visit her.

A cold chill rushes through him, and the boy – demon – sits on his bed of hay and furs.

There are two drinks in his hand, “Bull said you would like one,” he says, and Blackwall takes a long swig of one. Cole attempts to drink, but his mouth puckers in distaste.

_Not a human, a demon, trapped in a human mask._

“Maybe you are the demon,” the boy says, blushes, “I don’t think that’s what I meant. It’s hard to tell – when –“ he sighs, “She is upset. Alone. Feels guilt rising in her gut, guilt at trusting and loving.”

Blackwall’s heart aches, hate for himself filling his chest. He takes another long drink.

“Sorry is not good enough,” the boy reads his face, concentrates, “Time.”

And then he is gone, and Blackwall is left alone, again.

**…**

He awakens to find his gifted Grey Warden emblem beside the stable hearth, glowing red from the leftover coals of the night before. There is no note, and he picks up a piece of wood, his mind blank, hands fumbling.

He scratches his chin, his beard short and pricking, hair beginning to mat against the back of his neck.

**…**

She runs the smooth, wooden box through her hands, looks at the pile of dried flowers upon her bedside table. One of his tunics lays forgotten on the floor, and she stops herself from putting it on, to find comfort in him again.

She looks out, sees the horrible green of death on the horizon. She is meant to be in a council meeting soon, but she is hollow, cannot turn her eyes away from the destruction below her.

There is ash upon her tongue, and she bites it, if only to taste the blood flowing through her veins, a semblance of normalcy. That she is still breathing.

Sera enters the council room, then Blackwall, Trevelyan and Cassandra delayed.

Their eyes meet, and she holds his gaze until he looks away, shrinks in on himself. And still she stares.

He approaches, licks his lips, “There are no words to describe how sorry I am –“

“Apology accepted, Ser Blackwall,” her voice is cold, but her fingers tremble against her writing board, “I do believe there is nothing left to speak of between us, at the moment.”

Before he can say anything else, to reach for her, to break more promises, Trevelyan enters the room.

**…**

She is not there when the party leaves Skyhold to fight Corypheus – a long journey to the farthest corners of Fereldan, and a final confrontation that would save the world or leave it to rot.

Skyhold is quiet for weeks, everyone holding their breath in anticipation. She serves wine and mead and other drinks to the nobles, keeping them drunk and happy and stupid.

She drinks too, her head fuzzy each morning, watching the gates to see if they have survived the end of the world. If he has survived. And when there is nothing but snow, she turns back to her quarters and curls into her cold sheets, waiting until she is needed once again.

The party that follows their survival is large, and extravagant, and too _loud._ There is a ringing in her ears, and a crawling feeling in the back of her throat that drowns out the excitement at saving the fucking world.

She watches him from across the room. His beard is long and dirty, but he is dressed well, and there is a pack on his shoulder. There is a slight limp to his walk. His face is tired.

Josephine does not take her eyes off of him as he floats through the hall, like a ghost, his eyes already far gone - to a place far from Skyhold, she knows. She feels cold, her fingers numb as she tinkers with the bracelet around her wrist. He says his good-byes to Cole, to Varric, gives Iron Bull a hug. The mercenary’s eye lingers on Blackwall’s back as he steps away, flash to hers before she can pretend she is looking elsewhere.

She turns, downs a glass of mead, and then another, and feels the room spin. She does not let it show, does not falter when she hears his voice behind her, much closer than she expected, “Josephine.”

“Yes?” she pretends her voice doesn’t crack, turns to him, his eyes dark and close and searching.

“I am leaving,” he hesitates, “I am no longer needed here.”

There is a question in his voice. She is not sure the answer he is waiting, wanting.

“Oh,” she wants to ask where, how far, how long, but instead says, “I hope your travels are safe.”

His face crumbles, and it takes all her strength to not wobble on her legs, not let her tears flow.

He bows to her, “May your days be filled with the light of a thousand suns,” there is such reverence in his voice, and before she is able to pull away, he places the coin, cool and solid, in her hand. And then he is gone – disappearing and faceless within the boisterous, cheering crowd.


	2. and everything after

The days are long and hard as he travels down beaten roads, the husk that Corypheus left upon the world. But they are fulfilling as he tours the backend of Fereldan, the hidden corners of the Free Marches, even the edges of Orlais. He thinks he can smell her perfume, sometimes, when he sees the far-off harbors of Antiva.

He visits starving children, towns re-building, prisons filled with mages and desperate mothers, and finds solace in the crisp, clean air. Working with his hands, helping those who need it. He smiles, sometimes, when he feels the breeze wash over him, feels his sins wash off of his shoulders for a moment.

He sleeps in makeshift tents at night and sometimes wishes he had become a hunter in his youth - his life filled with the wilderness and its freedom. But then he dreams, has nightmares, her bronze skin, sunken eyes filling his mind, and banishes those thoughts.

Leliana tracks him, makes it clear he is being followed, no matter how far he tries to escape. Her crows echo their dark call to him as he travels, alone and haunted.

The Inquisition still has eyes on all corners of Thedas.

He tries to forget, forget everything. Meets pretty young women and elves who are eager to bed the rugged, quiet stranger in town. Sometimes he thinks of slipping into their beds, but he does not. They always ask his name, but he does not give it freely, and instead remembers golden eyes, bleak and haunted and beautiful.

Blackwall becomes known as salvation across the lower continent. He ignores the chants, continues his pilgrimage through the years.

Sometimes, when he dreams, she is in the carriage he is ordered to take down, and his last image before jolting awake is his sword piercing her abdomen. He tries washing the images away with wine and brandy, but they always come back.

Trevelyan sends him letters occasionally, and he uses them as tinder for his morning fires, boiling eggs over the written words. When they come more often, his name written more and more erratically, he finally opens one, reads every word slowly.

An Exalted Council, over the fate of the Inquisition. _Your duty to me, since you didn’t even say good-bye before you left, you ass,_ Trevelyan writes and in response Blackwall quietly curses, “ _Fuck.”_

Blackwall’s sleep is mucky and messy and he wakes up exhausted, packing his bags for Halamshiral. He looks around him, breaths in the fresh water and the smell of pine, and leaves the woods and the forests for the cold stone and blood-soaked rooms of the Winter Palace.

**…**

It feels like it has been centuries when she sees him across the courtyard. He is older, yes, his hair a little greyer, but he is still him, standing tall, face reserved.

Her feet move her closer to him, heart beating steadily, slowly in her chest. She swallows heavily when his eyes meet hers, the spark of hope she sees there, tries to slow the excitement in her step. Her mask does not hold strong against Blackwall – Thom – Rainier.

“Hello, Ser Blackwall,” her voice cracks a bit.

“Miss Montilyet,” he watches her carefully, dares to take her hand in his and kiss her wrist, so softly she barely feels it. It lingers there, for a moment, between them.

She purses her lips, licks them from the dryness, “How have you been?”

“Well, and you?” her eyes narrow at his curtness. She looks at her tunic, smooths it with her hands, gives herself a small distraction.

“Fine, I suppose. Trevelyan makes me want to pull my hair out of my head but otherwise everything is running smoothly,” but her voice is dull, and her smile follows too slowly.

He steps forward. He is not a tall man, but he is so close she must look up to keep their eyes locked, smells the fresh scent of pine and fire.

“And you, Miss Montliyet, how are _you_?”

She flinches a moment, does not answer.

He bends his head down, his mouth dangerously close, “I have missed you, Josephine.”

Anger rises in her throat, and she flinches away from him. She is bitter, she knows, “Not enough to write. To let me know you were alive, to tell me what you were doing.”

He pulls away too, and she misses his heat, immediately, “You did not write, either,” his voice is distant, “I’ve been across much of Thedas, never staying in one place too long… I see you in my dreams,” he confesses, quietly.

She furrows her brow, feels an ache deep in her chest, deeper than his betrayal could have left, after the war and the death and the destruction, “I’ve thought of you, so often,” she swallows, the lump in her throat large and betraying.

“It has been good to help, to feel the fresh air against my skin, the sun waking me in the morn…” it sounds like he is in a trance, and she wishes, for a moment, that he would speak of her that way, like he once did, so long ago.

He looks odd, here, in Halamshiral. He is not the Blackwall she danced with here, nor the Thom Rainier that left Skyhold years before. He is different.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” she asks, suddenly, and he turns his head to her, her eyes sharp and longing.

Before he can reply, she cups his face in her hands, gently presses a kiss against his cheek, and returns to duty and the Inquisition and royalty.

**…**

The Inquisition is disbanded _._ His bones ache, deep to his core, and he knows he will never shake the feeling, no matter how far he walks away from this place.

Everything is over, and despite the relief, there is also a nagging feeling in his stomach. Iron Bull is already leaving with his mercenaries, Cole preparing for life on the road with the bard. Dorian is sombre as he says his good-byes to the Qunari.

This is, perhaps, the last he will see of begrudging companions, and he feels an ache in his chest for it.

He still feels the brush of her lips against his cheek, rubs his hand against it. He only saw glimpses of Josephine, after that, and never enough to capture her image, to burn her into his memory before he leaves for good. To disappear into the woods, never to be seen again, his bones decaying back into the earth.

She stops him in the hallway to his room, “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

He feels his heart stop, takes a deep breath. This will be the end, he knows, and savors her face, her searching eyes, pouting lips, “I am, yes.”

She does not reply, takes his hand in her own, traces the callouses there with her fingertip. He waits, but enjoys the silence all the same, savors this moment with her.

“You’re off to Antiva, yes? Picking up the family business, beginning negotiations in Orlais…” a world far removed from his own.

She does not catch his gaze, “You remembered?”

He grips her hand in his own, covers it with his other hand, feels her pulse beat through her wrist, “Of course.”

“Perhaps I am. Antiva is lovely in the spring,” she sighs wistfully, “I will miss you,” but there is none of the pain or hurt or apprehension he is so used to, and he tightens his grip until she is pulling away, down the hallway.

She belongs in vibrant Antiva and he belongs in thick forests where he can hide and escape. And then he was alone. Again.

**…**

He says his good-byes, and as he stares at his miniscule pack of supplies, and imagines running into Josephine in the wilds, naked and free and beautiful. He shakes the ridiculous thoughts from his mind.

Lacing up his tunic, he slings his pack over his shoulder, leaves the little room he was given behind. He nods to Cole, who is busy helping the bard pack up her belongings, who smiles slightly. He slips through the Winter Palace’s narrow corridors and roads, making his way through one of the servant’s passages to the surrounding forest.

It is thick and plush and so, so green. He breathes in the minty air surrounding him, before a small cough draws his attention to the left. Probably a stray servant.

Instead, a familiar woman stands before him. She is dressed in a travelling tunic and pants he would never be able to afford, a small pack in her hand and stray strands of hair framing her face. His brows furrow in confusion.

“What are you –“

“So, where are we off to next? I certainly hope you brought a map with you,” she cuts him off, “I haven’t travelled much on foot, but I have a sleeping roll and some food as well…”

Deep in his chest his heart swells, warmth at seeing the light in her eye, the way her lip curls in contentment.

“I don’t understand,” he says, mouth open, dumbfounded.

“You’ve left me enough times I won’t let you run away again without a fight,” she tries to keep her voice steady, but he can see the nervousness clouding her eyes.

And then, anger fills his stomach, bile rising up to his throat. Anger at himself, at her stubbornness, at his weakness, “No, absolutely not,” he replies shortly, heading off into the blanket of brush covering the forest floor.

She follows, briskly, the underbrush not slowing her, “And why not?” she asks, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You’ve no place on the road. You belong in Antiva with your family and your business.”

“I do believe that I can make my own decisions, without you dictating how to live my life,” she is almost yelling, her voice carrying through the woods.

He turns abruptly and she almost runs into his chest, her face drawn tight in anger, “You don’t belong here, Josephine. Leave, to somewhere you _do_ ,” he is gentle, but there is no room for arguments.

She purses her lips, her eyes becoming cool, “You mean I don’t belong here, by your side? So, bedding me, lying to me, leaving me is fine, but then I am the dirt of the earth?”

“ _Josephine_ ,” his voice is reverent, and it takes all his strength to not get on both knees in front of her, “You do not understand what you do to me. Do you not see what I am? I am old and defeated and so, so tired. I’ve done horrible things that I will _never_ be able to live without. Shadows haunt me. You deserve the _world,_ laid out at your feet for your choosing and someone who can give it to you. What can I give you? An empty past and lies and old bones. And yet I’m trapped to you, I will always come back to you, do whatever you ask of me, so please… _leave.”_

He prays she will turn, leave and not look back at an old false warrior and _live._

“Just stop, already,” she hisses, “Enough. Stop. I demand it. I am able to decide what is best for me, and I do think I could use some fresh air.”

She kisses him. Frames his face with her hands and pulls him toward her, nips his lower lip, her tongue invading his mouth until he can do nothing but surrender to her. There is so much to tell her. But with her lips insistent against his he can’t seem to find the words. Destruction and salvation in his arms.

When they part for breath, he runs his mouth down the column of her neck, over her ear, across her cheek, whispering his love like a prayer.

“Took you long enough,” she teases lightly, and, she laughs. A sound he has not heard in so long, it is foreign to his ears.

It is beautiful. And soon, he is laughing too, a full and boisterous laugh straight from his belly. His head feels light, and she threads her hand through his, and then begin walking through the lush, dark green of the Emerald Graves.

“Thank Andraste that you’re so stubborn,” he breaths.

**…**

Antiva truly is lovely in the spring, much more beautiful than the far-off silhouettes of the harbors he used to admire. The winds roll off the Waking Sea in waves, making the sails on the ships coming into harbor flap merrily.

There are not many forests or woods in Antiva, its capital city mostly made of brick and mortar, and much of the surrounding towns made of desert or scrubs.

The calling to run into the bush and escape, hide in dense forests and shadowed woods has all but calmed for him.

They still vacation to Fereldan or the Free Marches occasionally, camping in the thick of the wilderness and occasionally stopping to visit small towns, helping in their own little way.

He stirs the cup of whiskey in his hand, watching the ice melt slowly from the afternoon sun. It is warm and lazy, and he soaks in its calm.

Josephine sighs, leaning against his side, a book he knows she is barely reading in her hands. His other hand drifts down to her stomach, rubbing smoothing circles, thinking he feels their child kick against his hand.

His hair is greyer and his bones ache more than they ever have, and yet, he cannot find it in himself to regret it.

He runs his lips over her cheek, and she giggles, and it a sweet sound to his ears.

“That tickles.”

He moves his hand up to her breast, heavy and sensitive, and tugs at her nipple between his fingers. She moans, heavy and deep, and he can feel his cock growing hard already.

“ _Blackwall,”_ she warns, and he smirks.

He scoops her into his arms, towards their rooms, the warm winds making the curtains billow, like ghosts.

He is content.


End file.
